Thursday, 27 November 2008

Hare and tortoise.

I don’t swear often. I don’t rage and howl at the lunacy and arrogance of those who think they own every corpuscle of blood in our bodies and can do what they like with us. Yes, I point it out, I am infuriated by it and most of all by its constancy, but I am not the sort to riot. My blood pressure is considerably lower than Old Holborn’s most of the time, and indeed lower than most people’s. My pulse does not pound in my ears, I don’t get spots in my vision, and I rarely clench a fist.

Does this mean I am more relaxed than OH about the way New Labour is systematically dismantling this country?.

No. It means that while Old Holborn is of the type that would storm the gates of Parliament (OH here, too fucking right), I am of the type that would spend twenty years digging a tunnel and filling a train with explosives. Not for me the thrill of the chase, the tearing of limbs, the piano wire solution. No, I take a more slow and measured approach. I prefer to savour revenge.

Strike Old Holborn and he will strike you back at once. Strike me and I will do nothing more than remember it. Some time later, perhaps weeks, perhaps years, I strike back. It’s never fair and it’s never fists. I do not use hired thugs, or even party whips, to exact my revenge. Often I appear not to be involved at all. It doesn’t matter to me whether the subject knows I did it, only that it is done. I never threaten. I just do it.

But why, the Righteous will ask? What do I have to be angry about? I am not one of those to be taxed at 45%, in fact I stop work before I reach 40% because I won’t work for half pay. I have a business, I have a house, I have no debts other than a mortgage, I claim no benefits. I have not yet been tazered, I have not yet been fined for having one more than the apportioned number of bags in my bin, I have not yet been branded a terrorist for taking a photograph in a public place, nor have I been prosecuted for it. I have not yet been sent to prison because a policeman didn’t like the song I was singing.

I have not had my house raided because our highly-trained officers can’t tell the difference between marijuana and tomato plants. I have not caught Clostridium difficile or methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus or any of the other collection of drug-resistant deadlies because I don’t go to hospitals or even to doctors any more.

So why would I be angry? These things have not happened to me.

It’s simple. It’s because they can happen to me, and every day brings the inevitability of a prosecution for some trivial made-up offence, or even for something that is not actually illegal, even closer. It’s because those who should be there to prevent such things are actively encouraging them. It’s because those we try to talk to just dismiss our concerns with contempt.

It’s because the names of hardened criminals cannot be made public to protect their human right to a family life while the names of those men, most likely husbands in miserable marriages, who choose to find solace in the services of prostitutes are to be put on posters.

It’s because government ministers smoke in their offices in defiance of the law and face no penalty, while the elderly, the terminally ill and the mentally ill are forced to shiver in the cold.

It’s because government ministers enjoy subsidised drinks in their bars while our local pubs close down because nobody can afford to drink there.

It’s because all that tax I’ve paid up to now, and all the increasing amounts of tax I will pay in the future, have been and will be wasted on free televisions and sky subscriptions, furniture and all conceivable luxuries in MP’s multiple homes. On ridiculous schemes and idiotic initiatives. On ID cards and databases which are unnecessary and useless, and which are only there to intimidate and control. On criminalising the trivial. On police forces who now spend their time working out which internal club to join rather than catching criminals – and when they do venture outside, worry more about the guy smoking in the bus stop than about the drug-pusher at the school gates.

It’s because children, local busybodies and even the Women’s Institute are now official enforcement agencies.

It’s because council officials do whatever they want, to whoever they want, and are never held accountable.

It’s because of the smug, patronising pat-on-the-head politics we now endure. “Go away, little serf, this is politician business. You couldn’t possibly understand.” It’s because no question is ever answered. It’s because every attempt to express concern on any subject is met with ‘racist-Nazi-bigot-BNP-supporter-paedophile’. Yes, they call us all paedophiles now, when we disagree with them. To them, we have no thoughts worth hearing. Our proletarian babble must be silenced because it interferes with their counting of our money. If that is best achieved through fear, then the fear of being branded paedophile and added to a non-erasable list should do it. Well, not any more.

It’s because of phrases like ‘we have to start listening to people’ and ‘lessons have been learned’ and ‘this behaviour is unacceptable’ which crop up every day, spoken like learned phrases in another language by people who have no idea what they are saying.

There is much, much more. Every concern has been, and will be, dismissed by the Righteous as ‘just a small thing really’. Individually, perhaps. Together, there is now a very large mound of little things, and more are added every day that this government stays in power. I have no confidence that the next will be any better.

This government, and the next, and if we let it, the one after that, will not listen. They will not learn. So I have given up talking to them. I leave the politician-baiting to OH (See me winding Kerry McCarthy up).He’s better at it and maybe, one day, he will indeed storm the gates of Parliament.

I will not. That does not mean I have given up, browbeaten into submission by the Righteous.

It means that, metaphorically speaking, I have started digging that tunnel. It’s a much slower approach. It requires persistence and an unquenchable thirst for revenge.

24 comments:

Although I maybe old, the reason that I have also become a grumpy twat is because of the sorry state that our once proud nation finds itself in today.I am also a 'tunnel digger' and I have a fucking big shovel.

Sounds a bit like you're a lone worker, but if you want help with the tunnel let us know. If you need tools with which to dig or wood for the shoring up then please ask. If you want food, drink and electricity down there, let us help. If you need diversions, just give the word. And when you arrive at the other end, good luck.

I started my own small tunnel years ago... posting here and in other places is another shovel full of dirt nearer to the end.

Why did I start?

Because I naively believed that writing to my MP to share my concerns about the ID Card scheme would, the very least, elicit a response.

I received nothing. Despite much trying, even visiting her constituency office, she refused to hear me. Then she voted for the scheme and proudly proclaimed that most people in her constituency supported it - a blatant lie!

I vowed then to do two things;

1. Become political2. Ensure this MP lost her seat.

The first has expended to seeking out and stomping on wonton acts of Righteousness from wherever it comes. The second is awaiting the next election; when I shall return to that constituency (I've since moved away) and campaign tirelessly day and night to achieve my aim.

Forgot to say - it's not about the internet. The ones who vote labour use it only for games and porn if they use it at all.

Write it, say it, print it, pass it around seedy pubs (wherever they're left) and most of all, do it in 'chav'. No complex politics. No words that have to be looked up. Hell do it in txt spk if thts the wy t hs t B.

Paralell with what they know. Mouth of Sauron, BBC. Voldemort, Gordie. Twist and spin, just like the Righteous. The Brown Gorgon goes down a storm. They love that one.

Don't fear the tattoed and the bulgy dim fighters. They have been under the Righteous yoke for long enough. Their education has been stymied which means they are fodder for the eloquent.

They will never read this. They don't know how.

So talk to them. Show them another way.

Tell them stories. They like stories.

They've been conditioned to it.

The hell with honesty. The ones we are fighting have never been honest from the outset. We will not win by fair fighting when our opponents have no concept of fair.

Gloves off. Kick them when they're down and keep kicking until they stop twitching.

Whatever I do can never be a threat to you. How could I be? I'm not even a whole and fit person. I'm just one of those dim cripples you can't even see. You know, you might have passed me on the street today and didn't even register my presence. So how could I be a threat to you?

You have nothing to hide so you have nothing to fear. Remember?

All I have as weapons are my words. No sharp edges. I couldn't possibly be as erudite and entertaining as you. We cripples are dim, remember? We have no thoughts. Neither do the tattoed hordes. Since they have no thoughts, and I have none that matter, what could I possibly influence?

Ah leg iron, "Don't fear the tattoed and the bulgy dim fighters. They have been under the Righteous yoke for long enough. Their education has been stymied which means they are fodder for the eloquent."Your post brings to mind this

TOMMY

by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleepIs cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bitIs five times better business than paradin' in full kit.Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

Leg-Iron, sorry, I was drunk last week and my eyes glazed over at the length of this excellent post."Our proletarian babble must be silenced because it interferes with their counting of our money". Brilliant.

You later said "Write it, say it, print it, pass it around seedy pubs (wherever they're left) and most of all, do it in 'chav'. No complex politics. No words that have to be looked up".I did my little bit the other day when standing near some ladies who were clucking approvingly at the nearby Local Authority Community Surveillance Vehicle " 'Working together for a safer city'.

They seemed to think that it would be photographing the ASBO boys until I pointed out that it would more likely to be gathering "evidence" of them putting out the wrong wheelie bin. That got them thinking.

To be governed is to be watched, inspected, spied upon, directed, law-driven, numbered, regulated, enrolled, indoctrinated, preached at, controlled, checked, estimated, valued, censured, commanded, by creatures who have neither the right nor the wisdom nor the virtue to do so. To be governed is to be at every operation, at every transaction noted, registered, counted, taxed, stamped, measured, numbered, assessed, licensed, authorized, admonished, prevented, forbidden, reformed, corrected, punished. It is, under pretext of public utility, and in the name of the general interest, to be placed under contribution, drilled, fleeced, exploited, monopolized, extorted from, squeezed, hoaxed, robbed; then, at the slightest resistance, the first word of complaint, to be repressed, fined, vilified, harassed, hunted down, abused, clubbed, disarmed, bound, choked, imprisoned, judged, condemned, shot, deported, sacrificed, sold, betrayed; and to crown all, mocked, ridiculed, derided, outraged, dishonoured. That is government; that is it's justice; that is its morality.